


ready to comply

by tribbletrash



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, More tags will be added as this goes on, Non-Chronological, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-World War II Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Suicidal Thoughts, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, lots of sad gays, tagged as underage for some underage kissing but no sex or anything, trigger warning for winter soldier stuff (torture + murder+ the likes)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-09-15
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:20:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,515
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7030627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tribbletrash/pseuds/tribbletrash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Longing.  Rusted.  Seventeen.  Daybreak.  Furnace.  Nine.  Benign.  Homecoming.  One.  Freight car.</p>
<p>Bucky's trigger words, and the memories behind them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. longing

**Author's Note:**

> lmao i know this is kinda a cliche fic to write but yeah, this is a fic based on Bucky's trigger words. it follows a non-linear timeline with each chapter as a different memory, some from before WW2, some from Bucky's time as the Winter Soldier.
> 
> i've already written several chapters and i'm going to Try and update maybe every sunday so we'll see how that goes, in the meantime you should Definitely comment on this chapter!!

“ _Fuck _,” Steve murmured, wincing in pain.__

__“Don’t scrunch up your forehead like that, you’re gonna mess the stitches up,” Bucky said, pulling the bloodsoaked thread through Steve’s forehead a little more gently that time. “You sure you don’t want me to take you to the hospital?” he added. “I’m... not very good at this.” He gestured vaguely at the jagged row of stitches he’d sewed the gash in Steve’s forehead with. His only prior experience with anything of the sort had been sewing a shirt he’d torn in a fight before his mother could find out- needless to say, this was nothing like that._ _

__“No, this is fine, it’s fine. And honestly,” Steve added in a low tone, “I don’t think we could foot the bill, so.”_ _

__They sat in relative silence for a while, the awkwardness of that last statement hanging almost tangibly between them, the quiet punctuated only by Steve’s seemingly endless stream of profanities any time Bucky put in a new stitch._ _

__Steve finally broke the quiet. “Look, I’m really sorry about this.”_ _

__“What, you getting the shit beaten out of yourself, or me having to clean you up?”_ _

__“Both, I guess. Won’t happen again.”_ _

__At this, Bucky laughed so hard he had to put the needle down. “Let me get this straight,” he wheezed. “You, Steven Grant Rogers, just told me you wouldn’t get in another fight?”_ _

__“Okay, okay, I take it back!” Steve, too, was grinning uncontrollably, despite the fact that there was still a gaping, half-sewn cut in his forehead._ _

__And it was at exactly that moment, looking fondly at a laughing but thoroughly beaten Steve, that Bucky realized he was in love. Maybe he had been for a while._ _

__He realized on some other level that he probably should feel ashamed, that he should hate himself, maybe even hate Steve for making him like this, but he didn’t. He likely would later, but for now, he just felt sort of warm inside, and his face was kind of hot- he was probably blushing. In that moment, loving Steve Rogers just felt right, like this was destined to happen, and he didn’t want anyone, himself included, to take that away from him._ _

__And he knew that Steve would definitely never feel the same way about him, that Steve might even hate Bucky for being like this, but he figured that was a problem for another time- just a dull pain in the back of his chest he’d ignore for as long as possible. And hopefully, he could ignore this forever- get over this feeling, marry a dame, maybe move into a Brooklyn apartment near Steve. (That, he knew, was not a very good getting-over-it thought, but he’d work on that.) So no one would know, least of all Steve. And he hated having to keep something that huge from Steve, but it was for their own good, really._ _

__Suddenly, the hating himself thing began to kick in._ _

__“You alright?” Steve had evidently noticed Bucky’s laughter tapering off into silence. “You look funny.”_ _

__“Says the guy with a row of hand-sewn stitches in his forehead,” Bucky retorted, forcing a smile._ _

__“Says the guy who sewed them.” Steve, the little shit, smirked. “Not your best comeback. But really, are you okay?” He looked genuinely concerned, but Bucky wasn’t about to let anything slip._ _

__“I’m fine, I’m fine. Just not a fan of being covered in your blood.”_ _

__“Yeah, well, me neither.”_ _


	2. rusted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another byproduct of the incident at the Potomac- a large patch of rust mars the Soldier's metal arm.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> before anyone asks- yes, the present tense is intentional. i'm writing this with past tense in the Bucky chapters and present tense in the Soldier chapters

In theory, one cannot feel pain in a limb that was not one’s own. But theory, apparently, does not always translate into reality.

The Soldier winces, picking at his arm with a small screwdriver. He’s not sure why he thought he would be able to fix this- the only thing he’s ever been taught to repair is weaponry. But then again, it is a weapon, isn’t it?

The offending injury is a large patch of rust on his shoulder. It’s a mottled orange patch stretching over most of the scarlet star, something he’s almost glad for- that symbol is a part of him he wouldn’t mind rotting. The arm hasn’t been the same since the incident at the Potomac- he figures some water worked its way inside and corroded the metal. (Normally, Hydra would patch him up after a mission like that, but he’d rather have both his arms wither away than let them touch him again.) The spot’s been there and growing for nearly a week now, but he hasn’t bothered with it till today. He’s letting himself fall apart, probably in more ways than one.

He jimmies the screwdriver around a little until a panel pops open. His phantom flesh screams in pain, but he grits his teeth and attempts to ignore it. The wiring seems to be in place as far as he can tell- the only issue is that most of it is rotted all the way through.

The Soldier sighs heavily, closing the hatch. He flexes his fingers, just to check if they’re still working- they seem a little slow to move, but maybe that’s just in his head.

He’s not sure what he’ll do- there’s no one in Romania who’ll fix the world’s deadliest assassin’s greatest weapon, even if said assassin is _very _sorry about the whole murder business. He supposes he’ll just let himself rot.__

__The funny thing is, it’s almost hard to make himself give a damn at this point. What’s the big deal about a broken arm when, given a few months, the authorities are going to find him. To kill him._ _

__And on his darkest days, he thinks that’s probably better than dying one piece at a time, than the slow but steady mental collapse that’s accompanied his escape and his arm’s affliction. Sometimes he thinks maybe he’ll finish the job himself rather than give them the satisfaction. He _is _the world’s deadliest assassin, after all- what’s one last kill to him?___ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally intended to post this chapter on Sunday, but after the events that occurred that morning in Orlando, I couldn’t. And I wanted to say something about it, and for a while I didn’t have the words, but I’m trying to speak now.
> 
> I feel so helpless- I think we all do- but what I’ve decided to do, my tiny act of rebellion against the hate, is to keep being gay, or bi, or aro ace, or whatever the hell I am. I’m going to keep writing stories on this site where characters I love and relate to are queer like me. And I know not everyone is able to do this, but I want every LGBT+ person reading this to know that they are so, so brave and strong, just for staying alive. Your existence is powerful. Your life itself is proof that they haven’t won, and we as a collective are proof that they never will.
> 
> This message is for black and latinx queers, who were specifically targeted, even if the media tries to erase that. You are doubly brave for existing and being who you are, and I am so proud of you, and I am so sorry for the brothers, sisters, and siblings you’ve lost in this massacre.
> 
> And this is for LGBT+ Muslims who have to see senseless murders in one of their communities used to justify hate against the other- this is not your fault, not your religion’s fault. This was a product of homophobia, racism, and lax gun control, three things caused by American society as a whole.
> 
> And of course, this is for the victims. I’m sorry. I am so, so, sorry.
> 
> And one last note to all eligible American voters- fucking vote. Vote. I hate to politicize this tragedy, but terrorism by its very definition is political, so the best way to honor the Orlando victims’ memories is to make sure this never happens again. Do your research- find candidates who support gay rights and are pro gun control and do your damn best to get them in office. In America, innocent people are killed every single day by guns. I don’t care about the “guns don’t kill people” bullshit, people kill people USING GUNS. And if you’re voting to let murderers and terrorists go on carrying guns and shooting up movie theaters and elementary schools and gay bars, you have blood on your hands! Do not let this continue to happen. Tear down the Second Amendment and stop the killings.
> 
> Stay strong. Stay safe. Have pride.


	3. seventeen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve Roger's 17th birthday, 1935.

**JULY 4TH, 1935**

“Aaaand keep your arms and legs in the carriage at _all times_ ,” the Ferris wheel operator drawled, closing and locking the cage door.  “That means you,” he added, nodding his head at Steve, who held his hands up in a _who, me?_ sort of gesture.  His troublemaking tendencies must have showed on his face.

The ride started out slow and rickety, their carriage creaking slightly in the late evening wind.  Steve threaded his fingers through the wire caging, restlessly looking around, but seemed to find nothing to captivate his interest, and slouched back in his seat.  “Should’ve gotten one of those swinging carriages,” he said, pointing at the couple in the cart beside them, swaying back and forth wildly and screaming with joy.  “This is kinda boring.”

“You kidding?”  Bucky shook his head.  “Those are an extra twenty cents.  Not worth it.”

“I _have_ twenty cents-”

“Yeah, but remember the Cyclone last year?”

Steve looked green just remembering it.  “Fair enough.”

The wheel creaked on quietly for another minute or so, the two sitting knee to knee in the cramped space, staring out over the Atlantic Ocean in the distance.

They’d just about reached the top when Bucky suddenly pointed out over the water.  “Look.”

Red, white, and blue fireworks were exploding over the Manhattan horizon, vibrant neon against the starless sky.  Out of the corner of his eye, Bucky watched a soft smile spread across Steve’s face.

And very suddenly, very quickly, Steve leaned over and kissed Bucky.

His lips were soft, and warmer than Bucky could have ever imagined, and it was over all too fast.

Steve tore himself away after a mere half second, possibly less, leaving Bucky frozen in shock, his lips slightly parted as if to say something, or maybe just to kiss Steve back.  Only the muffled sounds of faraway fireworks filled the silence.

Steve, however, had his lips tightly pursed, and was searching Bucky’s eyes for some sort of answer.  The reckless idiocy of what he’d done seemed to be hitting him all at once.  “If, if you’re not...” he began, eyes lowered.  The words alone might seem like a threat, but his tone was pitiful, pleading.  “If you don’t...”  He seemed unable to finish either question.  “Just please don’t tell anyone,” he sighed, leaning back and closing his eyes in fear or shame or some ugly combination of the two.

Bucky shook his head fervently.  “No, no.  I won’t tell.”  He laughed in an odd sort of way, entirely void of mirth, but not humourless, either.  Probably just embarrassment.  “Actually, I-”

But before he could finish his sentence, the Ferris wheel clunked to a stop.  The attendant threw the door open and began the usual _we-hope-you-enjoyed-riding-with-us_ spiel.  The pair slipped back into the Coney Island crowd, unable to continue their conversation.

“That was fun,” Bucky eventually said, words awkward, stiff, and precisely chosen.  “We should do that again sometime.”

“What, the Ferris wheel?” Steve asked, clearly startled out of a daydream.

Bucky rolled his eyes.  “Not that.”

“You mean- oh.  That.”  There was a slight pink tinge to Steve’s cheeks.

“Yeah.  That.”  Bucky laughed.  “Happy birthday, Steve.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter was a struggle because i've been busy highkey stanning star trek for the past few months and i can only read the title in anton yelchin's voice........ sewenteen, sir........
> 
> hmu on tumblr at my new url @captainjaylah where i write sometimes but mostly suffer and get into discourse. if you're interested in my original writing, i've also got a blog for that @thevalhallaproject!! please pay attention to my ocs. there's lesbians and they don't die.
> 
> also a note on the story- the ferris wheel in question is the Wonder Wheel at Coney Island. according to my research it was there in the 1930s, and it still is today. i've never actually been on it so pls excuse any inaccuracies!!


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